More than five years later Candida was reading a letter. It was ten days since Barbara Sayle’s funeral, and there had been a great many letters to read and to answer. Everyone had been very kind. She had written the same things over and over again until they almost wrote themselves. What it all added up to was that Barbara was gone. She had been ill for three years, and Candida had nursed her. Now that it was all over, there was practically no money, and she would have to look for a job. The bother was that she wasn’t trained. She had left school and come home to look after Barbara.

And now Barbara was gone.

All the letters which she had been answering had been concerned with this one thing, but the letter which she had just opened was different. It wasn’t about Barbara at all, it was about herself. She sat by the window reading it, with the wintry light slanting in across the expensive paper and the old-fashioned pointed writing. There was an embossed address in the top right-hand corner:

Underhill, Retley.

The letter began, ‘My dear Candida’, and it was signed, ‘Olivia Benevent’. She read:

‘My dear Candida,

‘I am writing to condole with you on your recent bereavement.